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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933994">A Page in Your Book</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life'>Duck_Life</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Amnesia, Friendship, M/M, Unhappy Ending, book store au, but make it sad, donna noble vibes, post-series speculation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:41:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>956</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933994</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is saved. The Fears are gone. <br/>Jon's a blank slate without the Eye holding his memories together, though. And reminders of his time at the Institute-- ANY reminders-- risk bringing the Eye's attention back to this dimension.</p><p>Martin makes a trip once per year.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>95</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Page in Your Book</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Martin never really pays close attention to which book he’s picking out. He supposes he could, give the choice a little more attention, make it something meaningful— or at the very least pick something he’ll actually read. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But each year he comes back and just grabs something at random. So far he’s got a little pile at home on his bookshelf: some high school student’s annotated copy of “Wuthering Heights,” a vegan cookbook and the third book in a YA series he doesn’t know the name of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This year, he spends about five minutes in the back of the shop, counting down the seconds to make it seem natural and normal, and then he snatches a paperback from the science-fiction shelf and approaches the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s not any particular reason for the annuality. Not like he’s some cursed prince in a fairy tale, doomed to only leave his tower on his birthday or something. It’s not even the same day every year, just… whichever day of the year he winds up needing it most. Sometimes he lasts until November. The second year, he barely made it to March. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Technically, since he’s the one making up his own rules, it could be more than once a year. It could be every other month, or even every month. It could be every day. Technically, since he’s the one making up his own rules, he’s not certain he would know when to stop. And while a customer who visits a quiet little used bookstore once a year might never attract notice, someone who goes more regularly becomes a familiar face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s the one thing he </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannot</span>
  </em>
  <span> be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Martin goes to the shop once a year. He pets the cat. He buys a book. He talks to the man who owns the place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s his name?” Martin asks, nodding toward the cat. (He knows the cat’s name, of course he does, but he pretends. He plays make-believe, for one day a year.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Commodore,” Jonathan Sims says, a smile tugging at his scarred face. At the mention of his name, the Commodore hops off the chair where he’d been snoozing and winds his way in between Jon’s legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a great name for a cat.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seems to suit him,” Jon says, bending down to scratch the Commodore behind the ears. When he stands back up, he looks momentarily startled by the intensity of this customer’s gaze. But then Martin slides his cheerful smile back on. “Will this be all for you today?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, um, yes,” Martin says, having completely forgotten he was holding a book. He slides it across the counter, only now seeing that it’s a dog-eared </span>
  <em>
    <span>Star Trek: The Next Generation </span>
  </em>
  <span>novel. Patrick Stewart stares at him blankly from the cover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent choice,” Jon says, scanning the pricetag and slipping the book into a paper bag. “Read this one during my uni days. I do remember it being good… can’t quite remember the ending, but… I suppose you’ll find out, ha.” He slides a complementary bookmark into the bag and hands it back to Martin. “Three quid.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Martin pays, dread gnawing his stomach as he longs for a way to make the exchange go longer, just to look at him and exist in his space just a little bit longer. But then Jon is giving him change and he’s holding the book and he can’t justify just standing there, gape-mouthed and longing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Commodore meows. Martin gets an idea. “Actually,” he says, tucking the bag under one arm, “sorry, dunno why I didn’t think of this before I paid but do you have any poetry books here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon gives him an easy smile. “Back left, next to the romance section,” he says pointing. Martin looks, heart thudding in his ears. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not yet, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he keeps thinking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>not yet, I’m not ready yet</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where?” he says over the thrumming in his ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just over—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“S-sorry, d’you think you could show me?” Martin says, moments away from leaping across the counter and clinging to Jon. As if it would change anything. (As if it wouldn’t VERY LIKELY make everything so much worse.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jon just says, “Sure, right this way” and leads Martin to the poetry section. He watches Martin pick out a collection of Pablo Neruda poems and badmouths Keats and makes a pun about Walt Whitman, and Martin stows away every word out of his mouth like a treasure. Saves it for later, saves it because it has to last him a year. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And later, he sits on Melanie and Georgie’s couch with a bottle of whiskey and lets himself cry. “He’s doing alright,” Martin manages through the tears. “Y’know. Healthy. Eating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s good,” Georgie says, sinking down onto the corner of the coffee table with another plate of reheated potstickers. Basira will be by any minute for the annual report.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate this,” Martin says, not for the first time. “I hate this, I hate it, a-and… And, God, I know this sounds just </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful</span>
  </em>
  <span> but sometimes I wish—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wish he were dead,” Melanie says. “You wish he were dead, because then at least you could sit in front of him and cry about it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y-yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Melanie tugs him toward her by the arm, and rests her head on his shoulder, running a hand over his arm gently. The Admiral steals a potsticker. “At least you’re… you know, giving him </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The whole point is that I don’t have anything to do with him,” Martin says, choking back another sip of cheap whiskey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve worked customer service before,” Melanie says. “You’d be surprised how big an impact an actual decent customer will make on you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin almost smiles as he reaches for a potsticker. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TMA ending soon time to post all my half-baked finale theories and thoughts</p></blockquote></div></div>
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